


In the Absence

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Bad Things Happen Bingo, Crying, F/M, Gen, Nightmares, Pain, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-06-29 11:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15728817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: For the Bad Things Happen Bingo over on Tumblr.Imelda suffers from nightmares, Coco tries not to let her Papá see her cry, and Héctor and Ernesto have a confrontation.Oneshot #4: Héctor and Ernesto haveanotherconfrontation.





	1. Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing oneshots for prompts requested from my Bad Things Happen Bingo card, so I'm just trying to keep them in one spot. 
> 
> Prompt for this one was Nightmares, and the character requested was Imelda.
> 
> If there are any mistakes at all, please let me know!

Imelda recognized the sound of rain hitting the window before she realized she was awake.

Curled beneath her quilt, she blinked at the pillow she was facing, and shifted around until she was on her back. She could feel some sliver of anxiety ebbing away in her chest, the product of some nightmare she couldn’t recall. She frowned and tried to remember–

_Miguel, and the glow of death, a sun rising over her shoulder_

–but only faint images came to her.

She sighed. The images were enough. Six months since sending Miguel home, and she still dreamed of failure. Without bidding, nightmares of kneeling backstage at the Sunrise Spectacular invaded her sleeping mind, and she was powerless to stop them. Sometimes she dreamed that the petal crumbled between her finger tips before she could send her grandson home, or that no matter how far she stretched she couldn’t reach Miguel, who seemed to fall miles away from her. But always, before she woke, the sun rose, and Héctor faded to orange cinders in her arms, until even the glow of the Final Death was gone.

Sometimes, in these dreams, Miguel blamed her, and she could do nothing but kneel in silence, the sunlight cold on her back, and her voice dead in her throat.

She was no stranger to these nightmares. But it grated on her that after all this time, they still left her tense in bed.

Miguel was home. He was alive. And Héctor, though still weak, was no more than a few steps away, asleep in the guest bedroom. Snoring, probably. Warm beneath his blankets, dead to the world unless someone shook him awake.

Her nightmares were baseless. They were ridiculous.

Shaking her head, Imelda forced her hands to relax from where they gripped the edges of the quilt, took a deep breath, and sat up to fix the mess of pillows around her head.

She didn’t know how long she’d been curled on her side, staring blankly at the pillows beside her. But sometime during the night, she must have moved about so violently that she’d dislodged her pillows from under her and deposited them in various places at the head of her bed. The storm was no help. It brought back memories of headaches and joint pain in the middle of the night, instead of pleasant memories of letting her grandchildren splash in the puddles, or enjoying some warm beverage while watching the rain fall from the safety of her home.

Thunder rolled somewhere far off. Imelda patted her pillow and settled down, pulling the quilt over her shoulders. She stared at the glass doors to the balcony, watched the rain splash into little puddles around the table, and let sleep take her, wondering vaguely if Héctor was watching the rain from his bed as well.

* * *

“Miguel, we give you our blessing!” Imelda said, loudly, desperately, and pushed the petal so hard against Miguel that he gasped. “You have our blessing!”

Miguel’s wide eyes stared at her.

 _This is a dream,_ Imelda thought. She had sent Miguel home. Miguel was safe. But all reasoning and rational thought was buried beneath a fresh wave of anguish when sunlight fell over her grandson, and he began to sob.

The petal shivered between her fingers, and fell away like ash.

The sun had risen.

“ _No_ ,” Héctor’s anguished voice said, but when Imelda looked down, her husband’s eyes were fluttering shut, the glow of the Final Death steadily brightening along his entire body. His ribcage rose and fell unsteadily as if he was gasping for air that wouldn’t come, and his jaw worked as if he was struggling to say something. “‘Melda–”

“We give you our blessing, Miguel,” Imelda said, her voice cracking on Miguel’s name. A heart she no longer possessed ached and she felt like she couldn’t breathe. She raised her hands and she pushed the petal against Miguel’s trembling ribs– _but the petal was gone, it was gone, it had faded away_ –but nothing happened. With a shake of her head, she pressed harder and said “Send him home, _por favor_ , we give him our blessing!”

But Miguel remained where he kneeled, sobbing and gasping, the bones of his hands gripping tightly to Héctor’s arm.

“Why didn’t you help me?” Miguel said, and Imelda could feel her arms shaking as her grandson seemed to shrink before her. “How could you let this happen?”

“I’m sorry,” Imelda gasped. Her chest burned, as if she still had lungs begging for air, and she couldn’t stop shaking. Somewhere beyond the anguish, she thought she heard a voice calling her name, and she knew none of it was real, but again those thoughts were swept away when Héctor shuddered at her knees.

His eyes were shut. The orange glow that had washed over his bones was so bright that it burned. Imelda reached for him, but her hands went through him as if she were trying to grab at smoke. He was falling away from her. The sun had risen but the world was growing dark.

“ _Mamá!_ ” Miguel cried, and Imelda sought to pull him into her arms, to promise they would find another way, but he had fallen so far that she could only see a speck of light in the dark.

 _I’m sorry!_ Imelda sobbed, alone and shaking. The world was empty around her. _I’m sorry Miguel, por favor, send him home, he does not deserve this, please–_

A hand gripped her shoulder.

_Por favor–_

“Imelda!” A voice called. 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped, and opened her eyes.

The room was dark. Thunder rolled overhead, and rain fell harder against the balcony doors. Imelda could feel her quilt tangled around her legs, saw her pillows bunched up against the headboard, and felt her hands holding Héctor’s wrist in a death grip.

Sitting beside her, Héctor smiled reassuringly and squeezed her shoulder.

Imelda stared up at him, still shaking. She had just seen him fading away into nothing, but there he sat, his hand a warm weight on her shoulder.

It had been a dream. Nothing but a dream.

Miguel was alive. She and Héctor had sent him home. He was going to live a long, happy life like his Mamá Coco. He wasn’t stuck where he didn’t belong.

And Héctor had not suffered the Final Death.

Another, ridiculous, nightmare.

Imelda shut her eyes and bit back a groan. What must she have looked like to him, sobbing like a child in bed?

She huffed out a breath, and opened her eyes.

He was in his nightshirt, his hair a mess, and he was watching her with a worried look. He must have come into her room while she was still thrashing about in her sleep. It was not the first time he’d been in her bed since their reconciliation, and she hoped it was not the last, but he was still spending most of his nights in the guest bedroom.

Memories came to her of waking to him sleeping beside her, young and alive, warm and soft. But the images of her nightmare were still too fresh to enjoy those memories. Even if it had been a ridiculous thing, it had been terrifying.

Her phantom heart was still racing.

“Imelda?” Héctor said tentatively. “Estás bien?”

“Si,” she said. Her voice was still thick with sleep. She raised a hand to move her hair from her face. If she’d been alive, her cheeks would have been burning. “Lo siento, Héctor. I didn’t mean to–”

“You didn’t wake me up,” Héctor said. “I was going to the kitchen, and I heard you…” He paused. His thumb stroked along her shoulder gently. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Imelda blinked up at him and realized with a jolt that she was still gripping his wrist. She quickly released it and sat up, struggling to even out her breathing (a force of habit, really, since skeletons didn’t breathe.) Héctor’s hand fell from her shoulder. He waited patiently as she gained her composure.

“Si,” she finally said, and forced a small laugh. “It was just a nightmare. I’m fine, Héctor.”

“You’re sure?” He asked. The unspoken _Do you want to talk about it?_ hung in the air, but Imelda refused. She had gone decades keeping her painful secrets to herself, and she was not going to stop now.

Even though, years before his death, Héctor had been an excellent listener.

“I am,” she answered. She smoothed her quilt over her legs and pulled it up to her waist, hoping it was clear enough that she meant to go back to sleep.

Even if that meant the very real chance of having the same nightmare, for the third time in a row that night alone.

Héctor searched her eyes. Imelda stared back, expecting a cheerful Buenas noches before he left, but he leaned back on his hands and said, “Ah, well, ‘tá bien. I’m going to make coffee.” He paused. “Would you like to join me?”

Imelda stared. “Héctor. It’s midnight.”

“I know, but I can’t sleep with the racket of the storm,” he said, waving one hand vaguely at the rain falling hard against the balcony doors.

“I thought you liked thunderstorms?”

“Sometimes,” Héctor said with a shrug, too nonchalant, and Imelda felt a rush of gratitude towards her husband.

If he really wanted her to share a cup of coffee with him, who was she to protest?

She was doing it for him. And, maybe, to avoid any further nightmares.

Just a little bit.

“Well,” she said, throwing her quilt aside. “You can’t have your coffee without homemade galletas.”

Héctor’s eyes brightened. “Who made galletas?”

“Rosita,” Imelda said with a smile, and they both stood and headed for the kitchen together, speaking softly on their way down the stairs.

* * *

Imelda gasped.

Héctor opened his eyes. The living room was dark. Thunder sounded faintly somewhere in the distance, and the sound of rain was gone. Sitting at the end the sofa, Héctor raised his head from the headrest, blinking sleep from his eyes, and looked down.

Nestled against him, eyes squeezed shut, Imelda twitched. Her hand opened and closed against his clavicle where it rested, and he could feel her jaw clenching where it pressed against his shoulder. The quilt they had tucked around their laps was on the floor, bunched around his feet.

Their cups of coffee sat on the table nearby where they’d left them, with a plate full of crumbs. Imelda hadn’t said anything more about nightmares after joining him in the kitchen, but Héctor had known she would have a more restful night with company. They’d sat on the sofa to talk, and she had fallen asleep against him, snoring lightly while he ran his hands through her hair.

But the nightmares had followed her.

“Héctor,” she gasped, and Héctor’s heart fell. She groaned and gripped at his nightshirt. “No, por favor, _no_ –”

She was breathing quickly, shifting as if trying to move towards something, and her hand continued to clench. Quickly, Héctor placed a hand over hers and used his free hand to smooth along her hair.

“Imelda,” he said. She went still. “Estoy aquí, amor.” She let out a breath like a whimper and Héctor shook her hand lightly. “I’m right here.”

With a gasp she opened her eyes. She stared ahead, silent for a moment, before looking up and turning panicked eyes on him. He smiled at her, settling back when she shut her eyes and sighed. Her hand relaxed on his chest. She shook her head.

“Ay. I can’t… these nightmares… Lo siento, Héctor.”

Her voice was thick with sleep, her brown eyes blinking sleepily. Héctor wrapped an arm around her shoulders and let her nestle back against him. “No, don’t apologize. We can’t help what we dream about.”

Imelda hummed. After a moment, she said stiffly, “You can go to your room, if you want.”

Héctor looked down at her. He didn’t think she wanted to be alone, distressed by nightmares for most of the night, but he wasn’t going to force the confession out of her. Instead, he reached down to pull the quilt over them both, and winked at her grateful smile.

“Why?” He laid his hand on her waist and pressed a kiss to her brow. “It’s comfortable here.”

With a soft laugh, Imelda relaxed against him.

They slept peacefully until sunrise, waking to Victoria setting fresh coffee and hot breakfast on the table before them.


	2. Don't Let Them See You Cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt Don't Let Them See You Cry, and the requested characters were Héctor and Coco.
> 
> If there are any mistakes, let me know, please and thank you!

“Will you bring me toys?”

“I will bring you every toy I see,” Héctor said to his daughter.

“Every toy?” Coco gasped, eyes big and gleaming with the possibilities of filling her room with toys from all over Mexico. “You promise?”

“Of course!” Sitting at his daughter’s bedside, Héctor reached out and poked the doll tucked in Coco’s arms. “Princesa Victoria will have so many friends, they’re going to fill this whole room and even the kitchen! You know,” he added regretfully, rubbing his chin with a grimace. “She might get very tired of them.”

“No, she will not,” Coco said. She held up the doll that was presently a princess (yesterday she had been a soldier, and before that a great musician) and shook it at her Papá as if that settled the matter. “She never gets tired of anyone!”

Héctor gasped. “Never?”

“No!”

“She doesn’t even get tired of your Papá?” He tsked and shook his head. “No, I don’t believe it.”

“She never gets tired of you!” Coco said, incredibly insulted that Papá would even suggest such a horrible thing. With a huff, she threw her blankets off and crawled into Papá’s waiting arms. He was very smart and very brave and he and Mamá were the best musicians, but he could be very silly sometimes. Looking up at him, she held Princesa Victoria up to his face and said very seriously, “She loves you, Papá.”

“She does?”

“Yes! Very much!”

Papá gasped and pretended to be embarrassed and covered his face with one hand. With a giggle, Coco settled Princesa Victoria in her lap and leaned against Papá. She wondered if Victoria felt as small in her arms as she felt in Papá’s, and if Victoria wished that he would never leave.

Papá was leaving with Tío Ernesto. Coco didn’t know for how long. Because whenever he left it always felt long, no matter how many days it actually was, or how many times she sang their song alone. Even though he told her, _I’ll be back before you know it, mijita. And I will bring you all the toys you can imagine, and all the prettiest dresses for you and Mamá, and when I come back we’ll sing together again, ‘tá bien?_

It still felt so long. 

She knew he had to leave. She understood. She was little but she was smart like Mamá and she knew.

She knew, but she didn’t like that she knew, because it wasn’t _fair._

“Victoria doesn’t want you to go,” she said, and Papá’s hand froze where it was stroking her hair. Coco held her doll up and picked at the yarn hair. Her eyes hurt. “She loves you a lot and she is going to cry a lot.”

She felt her Papá take a deep breath. He was quiet for a long time, stroking her hair, holding her tighter and tighter. Coco rubbed her wrist against her nose and tried not to sniffle because she would not let it make her cry. She didn’t like seeing her Papá see her cry, because one time he had cried with her, and it hurt that she made him do that.

She didn’t want to hurt him.

“Maybe,” she said, moving Victoria’s hair out of her button eyes, “She can sing our song with me? So maybe she won’t cry sometimes?”

“Si,” Papá said in a funny voice. He rested his chin on her head and she felt him breathing deep again. “She can sing it as much as she wants. It’s your song, and my song, and Victoria’s. Will you make sure she does not forget me?”

“She will never forget you,” Coco said, forcefully, so Victoria could hear and promise to do so. “Never!”

“Never ever?”

“Never ever, ever.”

Papá chuckled, but it sounded funny, and Coco got the feeling he was sad. She tried to look up at him but he cuddled her close and ruffled her hair. “And I will never forget you, mijita chiquita.”

“Or Victoria!”

“Or Victoria,” he agreed.

“And you’ll always sing our song? Every night?”

“Every night,” Papá said. “Even when I’m so tired I can’t walk and Tío Ernesto has to carry me, I’ll sing our song.”

“Me too,” Coco said. She giggled when she tried to imagine Papá’s friend carrying him, but suddenly her throat felt funny and she knew she wanted to cry. She pressed her lips together and buried her face in Papá’s shirt and did not cry even if she wanted to, because Papá was going away, and he would not tell her bedtime stories for a long time.

He was warm and comfy and still smelled like the perfume Mamá gave him. Coco breathed it deep and squeezed Victoria close.

“No llores, mija,” Papá said, voice thick, and began to pet her hair. “I’ll come home soon. Just for you and Mamá.”

“I know,” Coco said. Papá could not lie to her. Even if he lied to Mamá about how many cookies they ate together. He could never lie to Coco.

Later, when Papá kissed her goodnight, she felt wetness fall on her brow and Papá’s eyes looked sad.

Only when he closed the door behind him did she cry. She held Princesa Victoria close, and sobbed under her blanket, and tried to sing their song, before it all became too much and she fell asleep, dreaming of following Papá across the world.

* * *

Before the new year, in another world, Héctor thought of his daughter crying the last night he held her, and wept.


	3. Grabbed by the Chin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Grabbed by the Chin." Character requested was Héctor.

Héctor had never been blinded by rage, until now.

As if the rest of the world had fallen away, the only thing Héctor could see was Ernesto, standing next to Miguel. Ernesto, and his pristine charro suit, well remembered in his mansion with it’s pool and massive ballroom, all gained with the songs Héctor had written for Coco and Imelda.

The family that Ernesto had kept him from seeing for over 90 years.

He’d been _poisoned._

All rational thought was gone. Nothing but Ernesto existed in his mind, and only the drive to hurt and rage fueled him.

He launched himself at the man who had once been his friend, his _best_ friend, and they fell to the ground. Nothing could fix what had happened. Nothing. Nothing the man could say or do could calm Héctor now, because–because–

He’d taken everything.

Ernesto caught his wrist before he could land a good hit, but Héctor didn’t care. He strained, and slung accusations that he’d blamed on himself for 90 years. _Por Dios,_ he’d blamed himself for so long. But he’d tried, he’d tried to go home, and Ernesto had–

Hands grabbed him. He was dragged back, off of Ernesto and pulled along the floor. He could see Miguel horrified and standing back, but all Héctor could think of were the very last images he’d seen before death: an empty road, the train that would have taken him home, dark cobblestone under his knees.

Ernesto’s living face, kind and understanding, his hand passing the glass of tequila to Héctor.

Coco and Imelda’s faces. Memories of home flashing in his mind, too quick to treasure, bright like flames, and gone as if extinguished when the world had gone dark.

He’d woken up to a bridge strewn with petals, the lights of a city bright in the distant mist.

But he’d just wanted to go _home_.

Tonight home had been so close. Miguel had been his last chance. And Ernesto, with his lies and his false kind voice, had taken that from him again.

Ernesto, who stood by Miguel, and watched as Héctor was dragged behind two high doors.

“No!” Héctor cried, reaching forward, but anything he could do now was useless, because he’d failed. Again. Failed to cross the bridge to see his daughter. The Final Death was creeping over his shoulders and he would never see her, not in this world, or any other.

The blinding rage was fading, replaced by something agonizing and draining, as the guards pulled him into a dimly lit hall.

He still fought. He struggled in their grips and reached forward–for Ernesto, or Miguel, or the photo, he didn’t know. But he was so weak, weak with failure, weak with the Final Death ready to take him away. All he could do was yell.

The doors slammed shut, and the hall grew dark.

The guards holding him went still. With a jolt of hope, Héctor took the chance to try and wrench himself from their hold. If he could only get through those doors–

An elbow drove into his ribcage. He cried out, more in frustration than in pain, and tried to pull his arms from their sockets, not knowing whether or not he’d have the energy to pull himself back again.

But a pain exploded at the base of his skull, and all thoughts were silenced as he fell forward into a dark, quiet nothingness.

* * *

He woke up to the sound of footsteps coming near.

He tried to open his eyes, but the order to blink was sluggish in his mind, and it took him longer than it should have. It didn’t help that his ribs ached with every fake breath, and it felt like someone was trying to inflate a metal balloon in his skull.

He was lying on something hard and cold, and the footsteps grew louder, until there was blessed silence, and he could focus again on opening his eyes.

“Héctor? Are you awake, amigo?”

The words jumbled around in his mind before becoming a coherent question. Awake? Was he awake?

He wasn’t even sure if he was still alive.

Someone sighed. “Wake him up.”

 _I’m awake, pendejo,_ Héctor wanted to say, but before he could even open his mouth, something hard slammed into his hip.

He gasped and moaned, curling into himself, a flash of anger pushing through the agony.

He opened his eyes.

The tips of pristine white boots met his gaze.

“I don’t have time for your theatrics, Héctor,” Ernesto’s bored voice said, just as Héctor realized he was curled up on the cold tile of some dark sitting room. There was the sound of someone snapping their fingers, and Ernesto continued, “Lift him, por favor. I imagine he’s too weak to stand on his own.”

Hard hands gripped his arms. He was lifted onto his feet. He could feel himself trembling, and he felt heavy, as if his bones were made of rocks.

He tried to struggle, but his attempts were weak. He was too weak to even stand on his own. Still, he felt a burst of pride at his remaining resolve, and lifted his bowed head to meet Ernesto’s gaze.

“I’m not your amigo,” he managed to say, voice faint. “Don’t call me that.”

With a glint of humor in his eyes, Ernesto gave him a slow smile.

“I know,” he said. He picked at his chaqueta, as if there could ever be a speck of dust on the stiff material, and shrugged. “Not now, and not in the last days of your life.”

Anger and disbelief burned in his chest. Gritting his teeth, Héctor struggled, once again wanting to throw himself at Ernesto and fight until bones shattered. Even if it was his own bones, he didn’t care, he just wanted Ernesto to know his anger.

Only vaguely aware of the guards grunting in effort to hold him back, he growled, “I was always–let go, cabrones–I was always your friend! Since we were children, Ernesto! And you betrayed me! Damn you! _Damn_ you! _Pinche_ –”

He saw the change in Ernesto’s eyes, knew he was in trouble before it happened, but he didn’t care. He expected a blow to the ribs and grunted when it happened. The force of Ernesto’s fist against his sternum sent him curling forward, against the guards’ arms. The memory of something similar happening to him in life flashed in his mind, and he felt phantom air drive out of lungs he no longer had.

He was dead, but he felt winded.

The guards were the only things holding him up. He sagged, shaking, and tried to gather energy to raise his head and finish his insult.

Just then, a wide, cold hand gripped his chin, and jerked his skull up.

Ernesto’s eyes were aglow with fury.

Héctor tried to pull out of his grip, but Ernesto’s fingers tightened until there was pain. He was held in place, shaking with rage, forced to meet the cold anger in Ernesto’s eyes. 

Ernesto tilted Héctor’s skull up and to the side, eyes roving over the faded markings on Héctor’s chin and cheekbones and above his brow, taking in the bone that had yellowed over the years. Héctor knew very well how he looked, how old and raggedy he would seem to someone so well remembered, but he had stopped caring about his appearance long ago. 

Still, a wave of renewed anger went through him when Ernesto sneered, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Look at you,” Ernesto said, amusement clear in his voice. “How far the great composer has fallen.”

Héctor parted his lips to speak, but Ernesto’s grip tightened in a silent threat. He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re right. We were good friends once, when we were young. But how much of a friend were you in the end? When you were so ready to leave me when I needed you the most?”

Ernesto bared his teeth in a snarl, and Héctor had to bite back a grunt of pain when Ernesto’s fingers dug harder into his chin. He wanted to curse. What was Ernesto trying to do? Crack the bone?

“I did not betray you, Héctor. You betrayed me. Long before I killed you.” With a snort, Ernesto released Héctor’s chin with a flourish, the force jerking Héctor’s skull to the side. “The blame for your misfortune should not be laid entirely upon me, should they?”

Héctor didn’t argue. He was well aware that his own actions had led him here, alone and nearly forgotten, but that did not change the fact that Ernesto had betrayed and murdered him. 

If he had only done things differently… if he could go back and change everything…

“I took the time to visit you before my show,” Ernesto said, wiping his hand on his chaqueta, as Héctor sagged, resigned, in the guards’ hold. “I wanted you to know that this is all your fault, in the end.”

“No,” Héctor growled, “You–”

Pain erupted where his abdomen had once been. Bright orange light sparked along his bones like fire, and he heard himself gasp and cry out. Suddenly the guards released him, and he was falling to the floor, curling in on himself, as pain ate away at him like it had so many years ago.

The spasms of the Final Death shook him one last time, before the light flickered away, and he lay gasping and shaking against the cold tile.

“I’ve never seen the Final Death before,” Ernesto said, light interest in his voice. “You do still know how to put on a show, Héctor.”

Héctor could not find it in himself to answer. He stared at the polished tile, shock and shame freezing him in a fetal position. He’d seen the Final Death many times.

But he’d never experienced the spasms, until now.

“Well, I do have a crowd to entertain with your songs,” he heard Ernesto say dismissively. “Throw him in with the boy.”

Héctor looked up with a gasp, suddenly alert. “Miguel? Ernesto, what did you–”

But Ernesto was gone.

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, Ernesto humming to himself, as the guards once again lifted Héctor and began to drag him towards a pale door in the corner of the room.

Shaking in their grip, Héctor could feel the shock and shame fading beneath fear for Miguel. Ernesto must not have sent him home. So close to sunrise, and the boy wasn’t home.

The door opened, and he was dragged through into the cool night air. A stone wall led away from the exterior of the mansion, and the guards followed it, silent.

Even as they dragged him over the cold ground, Héctor could feel some strength returning to his bones.

He was never going home. But he could help another return across the bridge before his time was up, even if it meant his dying breath.


	4. Dialogue Prompt 14, for Héctor and Ernesto

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this isn't for the Bad Things Happen Bingo, but it does have something bad happen to Ernesto and I didn't wanna post it by itself since it's so short ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Originally written a few months ago for the Writing Prompt meme over on Tumblr. Anonymous requested: "Duct tape? Duct tape is not going to fix this!" It's always confrontations with these two.
> 
> Post-movie, canon.

“Duct tape? Duct tape is not going to fix this!”

Holding the roll of duct tape in his hand, Héctor crossed his arms and matched Ernesto’s glare with a glare of his own. With the way his murderer and one time friend was acting, you’d have thought Héctor had suggested he fix the splintered fibula with a wad of old chewing gum and spit.

“Oh, and you’re an expert in this, hmm?” Héctor snapped, irritation growing at the disgust and insult on Ernesto’s face. 

What right did this _pendejo_ have to yell at Héctor, anyway? Héctor wasn’t the one who had come sneaking out of the shadows after his family had retired for the night to ask for help. It was Ernesto who had snuck up on Héctor outside the Rivera apartments, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and pleading as he asked as timidly as possible for some way to fix the fracture in his leg. Héctor, who had quickly gotten over his shock, only took a moment to nod begrudgingly before heading inside to retrieve the roll of duct tape.

It wasn’t the first time Ernesto had come to him for help. It had been over a decade since that fateful Día de Muertos, and though Héctor could never forgive Ernesto for all that he had done, he wasn’t completely heartless.

He’d never been able to turn down someone in need. 

…even murderous, ungrateful jerks.

The family didn’t know that Héctor sometimes helped the musician that had caused them so much grief, and he wanted it to stay that way. Ernesto wasn’t allowed into the home, so Héctor walked with him to a nearby warehouse he knew of. There, he had taken the duct tape from his pocket, and watched anger and disbelief blossom on Ernesto’s face.

“I know enough to know that _pinche_ duct tape is not going to fix this,” Ernesto snapped back, and gestured sharply at the thin crack circling his left fibula. It was small–barely enough to warrant the whining and wincing Ernesto kept doing–but Héctor knew small fractures didn’t stay small. They grew, and grew, until the bone split, and pain raced up and down both halves with even the smallest of movements.

“Nothing’s going to fix this,” Héctor said. He unraveled some tape and tore into it with his teeth, ignoring Ernesto’s frown. “In case you missed it, _amigo_ , we’re dead. Our bones don’t heal if we’re being forgotten. A cast isn’t going to set that. This,” he held up the strip of silver tape, “Is the only thing we can do. It helped me all those times _I_ broke something.”

Ernesto’s expression faltered. He glanced down, and for once Héctor saw something that might have been remorse on his old friend’s face. A memory flashed before him–a vision of a younger Ernesto, alive in Santa Cecilia, unable to meet a much younger Héctor’s eyes while he apologized for insulting the boy’s dead parents. Héctor, who had been in tears, and sniffled and nodded and hugged his older friend who hesitantly hugged him back. They’d both been orphans, and Héctor knew Ernesto hadn’t mean what he had said, because he’d felt the same pain of never knowing his own family.

Of course now Héctor wasn’t going to hug Ernesto. Neither of them wanted that. Ernesto definitely didn’t deserve one. Instead, Héctor waited.

Ernesto’s shoulders slumped. He huffed, pulled his threadbare coat closer around him, and said, “Of course. _Lo siento,_ Héctor.”

“Are you going to let me help you now?” Héctor said. 

Still unable to meet his old friend’s eyes, Ernesto sat on a low stool and gingerly rested his foot on a nearby crate. Without another word, Héctor stuck the tape over the crack and began to wrap it quickly and easily, ignoring Ernesto’s heavy sigh, and wondering how much longer until Ernesto once again came to him for help as his memory faded painfully slowly in the Land of the Living.


End file.
